Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Escape Velocity
Five years, route run dry.
Last grain trickled through the break.
Get out, get out now.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

The “Gentle Leader.” At first glance, you’d conclude it’s the poor man’s gentle reader, the RC Cola on a shelf packed with attentive Perriers. At second glance, you’d conclude the exact same thing and rationalize it as a horrible lisp. It’s actually none of these things.

Pet supplies, even those forged with the latest technology, seldom consume our discussions, so why this one? My co-worker painted the device in dark tones, explaining how it left minor abrasions on his Boston terrier before inflicting even greater strain on the poor dog’s psyche. He found his pet sitting in the dark, on the couch, having appropriated human levels of sulking.

And then he remarked that “Gentle Leader” sounded like some kind of missile manufactured in Red China. Perfect.

The field of weapons marketing, fertile as it may be, probably doesn’t command the top spots in business school curricula, though it damn well should. Take the Gentle Leader, for instance. If it were called “Chinese Missile” or “The Real Asian Fireworks,” you can bet your WMD’s there’d be panic in the streets. I know I’d instantly picture a camouflaged silo flanked by verdant hills, and tucked away in that superstructure would be Chairman Mao’s fourth wife. Not so with the Gentle Leader, whose very syllables cause my shoulders to relax as I place my faith in a gigantic yet cuddly explosive.

Let’s give this whole renaming thing a try, alright? With haiku.

Patient Helper
Aluminum core
whispers softly in your ear,
makes you unconscious.

Getting the hang of it? Let’s try another.

Soft Rebuke
Look! A newborn crane,
floating with the green lotus,
only with bullets.

And one more.

Cozy Pillow
Much like a season
fleecy and supple to touch,
nuclear winter.

It may be time for you to leave.

Happy Ending
Get off my lawn,
you goddamn reprobate with no teeth.
Don’t trip, okay?

Monday, March 21, 2005

On a whim, on a very misguided whim, I did my taxes yesterday evening as a way to wind down the weekend. Why I did this is anyone’s guess. The weather may have been to blame, or perhaps it was the pleasant haze from a brunch with familiar faces.

Let’s say we traveled back to an age before the Internet or FedEx. How were taxes done? By horse, obviously, specifically horses that cantered only on Thursdays. This left Sundays free for sanctioned activities, such as card games. In another time, I’d be talking to you with a cigar and brandy clasped in one hand, a book on pinochle strategy in the other.

But it isn’t another time, it’s now, the twenty-first century, and I can surf to Turbotax and file instantly. Don’t you always imagine your taxes will turn out differently? Peers may bitch and moan about paying through the nose, which is unfortunate for them. Their problem, their money. You, on the other hand, are going to be lucky. You’re the mod in a sea of mode. Click a few buttons and wham! Your fiscal conclusion will assume the soft contours of a fat return.

You know what? That happened to me last year, when almost a grand appeared in my mailbox. This year? I’m sending about as much to theirs. I suppose this is a rite of passage, a recurring bullet point on this whole grown-up thing. Let me tell you, it hurts. It’s like, “Thanks a lot for taking so much out of my paycheck already, Uncle Sam, but let me give you more. Why don’t I bend over this desk and wait quietly for that gigantic federal dong to screw me. You know, the one tattooed with the big 1040.” And Uncle Sam’s like, “Well, yes.” Pictorially speaking,

“Desk. You. Now.”

The problem, I think, is we’re used to getting something for our buck, whether it’s a good or a service. Abstractions such as “freedom,” “safety,” or “infrastructure” just don’t pass muster. The IRS needs to send taxpayers key rings, big ones, so we can at least say, “I paid $1500 to get this shitty trinket.” And then we can bend over for next April, key rings and all.